


My Anchor on northern grounds

by Isaha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Communication is everything, F/M, Internal Conflict, Unresolved Romantic Tension, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 16:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isaha/pseuds/Isaha
Summary: Jon Snow and Sansa Stark settle in their new lives as rulers of the North, learning first-hand the principles of government. They finally address their trust issues and bare their scars to each other.A door is opened and won’t close again.





	My Anchor on northern grounds

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clear things up, this one takes place before Jon leaves for Dragonstone in season 7. Hope you'll enjoy it!

On her way to the great hall, Sansa Stark strode along the covered walkway on the western battlements of Winterfell, moving past the large icicles hanging from the eaves of the roof.

Climbing roses had started to bloom along the wall in a riot of tiny deep-blue swelling buds – to the retainers’ surprise, for they had tried to get rid of the blind shoots a long time ago but her father had been adamant against it, she remembered. The usual chatter of the swallows she remembered from her childhood was quiet now, as the birds had flown south. The wind had risen a little as the afternoon light began to fade, and Sansa was grateful for the warm, quilted garments she now wore under her robes. The days had grown even cooler, with a hint of the frost to come, and she feared the onset of winter for which they were still so unprepared.

Even though she was finally in Winterfell after all these long years, Sansa had come to realise the safe haven she’d longed to build was something to fight for, and every day was a challenge of its own. She felt like they had all been swallowed up in a storm since Jon was proclaimed King in the North. After half a day of shared contentment and relief over the turn of events, her brother seemed tense whenever she set eyes on him. Finding a moment when she could have a private conversation with him had proved to be difficult as well, as the demands of government soared. They’d only spoken face-to-face during the council that took place shortly after the coronation, when it was decided that Jon and Sansa would share the burdens that power entailed, he dealing mainly with the impending war with the White Walkers, she with the rebuilding of the town. They also agreed on working on the rallying of the remaining Northern houses together, as the eldest remaining siblings of the family that once ruled Winterfell.

 

The task ahead was immense, and she knew next to nothing of the day-to-day running of a domain. Sometimes her mind was filled thoughts of how different her life would have been if she’d been groomed not only for curtsy, but for ruling as well; perhaps she wouldn’t have ended up a mere pawn whose life was worth nothing to the warlords who had owned her. But now that she understood the moves of the great game, she longed to be more than that and play it herself.

As she had feared, Littlefinger quickly became a thorn in her side. Even though she knew his ambitions now and how talented he was at exploiting weaknesses and poisoning minds, Sansa still needed his insight and counsel to guide her. She’d been his ruthless partner in crime in the Eyrie. What could she do to flatter and tame him now? The vision of her as his companion had certainly blinded him to the risks of revealing his innermost motives and left him exposed. She had to walk on eggshells when it came to the man, but someday, she thought with renewed resolve, his schemes would catch up with him.

 

Much to her relief, assistance with her daily duties was offered by Raymund Poole, first cousin of her once dear friend, and newly appointed Steward of Winterfell as a replacement for his uncle. Sansa hadn’t had the opportunity to meet him in her younger days but his frank, fearless eyes and vast knowledge of the estate and the villages pleased her. She quickly realised that the man could tell her much of what she needed to know and guide her choices wisely. There were many practical skills for her to learn, and even though he said nothing on the matter, Sansa knew she surprised him with her quick grasp of affairs.

There wasn’t a soul in the vicinity who did not know about her dreadful marriage to the Bolton heir, and while she suspected many people remembered the soppy, petulant girl she had once been, she had caught several denizens gazing at her with something akin to admiration. People had loved Eddard Stark, and that love was now transferred to his children, she realised.

Had she been asked a few years ago, Sansa would have said that looking after the peasantry was below her and felt like a demotion. Yet she had learned from her time in King’s Landing how the loyalty and devotion of the small folk was not to be disregarded, so she devoted herself to improving their land, an endeavour she hadn’t believed she’d become so immersed in. She had spent all her childhood pretending, wishing she was off somewhere else, somewhere south. Even though her path was nothing like she had hoped it would be, Sansa felt fulfilled here, in the North, safe and finally in charge of her own life.

 

Every two days she rode out with Poole – and sometimes Jon or Podrick Payne – from Ironrath to the Hornwood, inspecting fields, woods, villages and rivers; they gave instructions for the last harvest and livestock to be brought in and for enough fodder and firewood to be gathered.

They didn’t have much money to spare, but Jon and Sansa had also arranged for the castle's in-wall heating system to be attended to. For the time being, heavy woven tapestries that had been stored away long ago were unearthed to provide much needed insulation to the rooms. Even though the fortress was built facing south to catch the winter sun, the thick sandstone walls were now barely heated by the hot springs since the castle had been put to the torch.

Wintertown was coming alive as more and more Northerners sought refuge from the snows. The blows of hammers and the hiss of saws set up a lively song as the new inhabitants busied themselves with restoring walls, chimneys and roofs, and the houses now looked in much better condition. The town itself didn’t look as run-down anymore as most of its damages were repaired; streets were gravelled and the outer walls rebuilt.

With Jon, Brienne, Lord Royce and Maester Wolkan, Sansa went through the armour and weapons, ordering replacements and repairs to be done. Thanks to the proximity of mountains rich in iron ore, many small and flourishing industries were established in the North, crafting all forms of ironware, pots and kettles and above all sword-making, with a few renowned swordsmiths and forges. Although it was neglected under the Boltons' rule, the North was rich and its people enterprising and hardworking no matter the looming winter, and they needed little encouragement to return to the level of activity they had enjoyed under Ned Stark’s reign. _This is the way to treat the people,_ Sansa thought; _they are bound to our family by more than custom and rules. Attention and respect ensure their loyalty._

 

Bit by bit, over the next weeks, they had stored enough provisions in the underground cellars to last many months. If the winter were to push a three year mark however, it would definitely force them to import food from milder lands. Although Winterfell had recovered from any mismanagement of supplies, it didn’t stop her from wincing when she saw the spread of food prepared to celebrate Houses Karstark and Umber’s sworn-again loyalty to House Stark. The air in the Great Hall was full of the rich smells of the delicacies of late autumn: roasted piglet, smoked eel and stuffed burbot from the local streams, quail with its tender and juicy meat, salted parsley root, beech-tree mushrooms, dried persimmons and quinces, sweetened chestnuts and candied citrus. The sight of a small lemon cake in front of her spot at the table – probably the last she would eat in a long time, if ever – brought a smile on her face.

That evening she tried to steal a few glances at Jon but he seemed to have a hard time even looking at her, so she ate her meal in silence, enjoying for once the raucous banter of the drunken men. She and he both knew they couldn’t afford to bury their disagreements forever; right now all they had was each other, and only their strength and fortitude protected what they had gained and paid such a heavy price for.

Still, the honeymoon period didn’t last long, Sansa thought bitterly when she returned to her chambers later that evening after excusing herself from the table. Over the past weeks they had grown more attune to each other and were getting along quite well overall, she thought, but there were times when Jon was really rubbish at listening to her. Just like on the eve of the battle where they’d reclaimed their home, her words would sometimes go unheeded and it tended to spark off resentful feelings she tried to repress. Although he had offered her forgiveness, she feared she made him doubt her because of her withholding information about the knights of the Vale. There was little Sansa regretted about it however; not only hadn’t she wanted to rely on Peter Baelish, but had she chosen to reveal her cards to Jon and Davos Seaworth, wouldn’t she have been forced to leave the control of the events to the business of men again? _Bend a little_ , she had learned throughout the years, _and they’ll bend you further until you are bowed down_.

She tried to keep herself busy with overseeing the records of administration but soon forgot about the ledgers and paperwork on her desk as she let her mind wander, looking back on the news of Cersei’s coronation. She had tasted the Lannisters’ wrath before, and knew the Queen would know no rest until she had her body torn apart and her head on a spike. The South definitely had not and would not give up its campaign against her and the remaining members of House Stark...

 

A knock on the wooden studded door snapped her out of her niggling thoughts. One of the castle retainers quietly slipped in the room and bowed his head, “The King wants to see you, Lady Sansa”.

Steeling herself for whatever was to come, she set down her quill before getting to her feet and nodding her agreement. Jon stepped inside, glancing at the room he only had rare occasions to see. It used to be his father and Lady Catelyn’s quarters but Sansa had rearranged the furniture to make it hers. The room was a study now, and a corridor built within the wall lead to her bedroom. A cup of warm goat's milk sat on the desk among a pile of paperwork, and on a chair was laid a large and yet incomplete tapestry on which was embroidered a large blood-red weirwood tree and a fearsome direwolf, not unlike the one adorning the wall hanging in the great hall years ago. The plaited rush matting covering the floor was fresh and new and smelled of autumn grass, and the shutters were closed to allow the large and beautifully carved fireplace to warm the chill night air. Sansa politely invited him to sit across her on a padded seat by the hearth.

“I owe you an apology”, he said at length after they both sat down, referring to his biting words earlier when she’d told him to act cleverly. “I’ve been hurtful to you when you just wanted me to be on my guard”. Jon watched his sister as her shoulders sagged visibly in relief before he gave a full-on, heavy body sigh. “But arguing in plain sight of the Lords – it felt like you wanted to remind them that I’m not meant to rule.”

That was it – the words had swelled up huge and rushed out of his mouth. Deep down, everything Jon wanted and desired was to be worthy of the name Stark... Worthy of his family. And now that he had all but seized her birthright in front of her eyes, worry, self-doubt and guilt were nagging away at him more than ever.

“Jon,” Sansa reached for his hand and squeezed gently, making him drag his eyes up to look straight at her, “I don’t want any ill feelings between us. I know you’re going to do whatever you believe is right, no matter what, but if you trust me and if you’re still interested in listening to what I have to say, perhaps you should ask my advice beforehand, at the war council.”

“So you believe I was wrong to hold my ground about the Umber and Karstark heirs?”

“Perhaps not”, she sighed, straightening herself.”You were right to say that a child shouldn’t pay for his parents’ actions. You _were_ ,” she insisted when he looked unsure. “It’s easy to think that they will redeem their family name when they’re that young. But I fear their fathers’ death will forever lie between us and them, no matter what crime they have committed.”

“They have sworn that they’ll be loyal to us,” he objected. Ordering the death of young people was certainly not something he looked forward to doing again. “I prefer to give them my trust, in the hope that they deserve it.”

Sansa pressed her lips together and nodded. “Nevertheless, we must handle them carefully.”

They sat there for a long moment after that, saying little, each wrapped in their own thoughts but taking comfort from the other’s closeness. Jon fell into one of his familiar silences, studying her. Over six long years had separated them, and she was now a few months into her nineteenth year if he recalled correctly. She'd certainly had gained a hard edge over the years, this sister of his; she had a mind like a sword and turned into a bold young woman. In the end, the shivering, frostbitten, exhausted slip of a woman he had shared a long embrace with when she irrupted in Castle Black and back into his life wasn’t quite like the young girl he’d known, who dreamed about finding true love in the South. _The girl died_ , said an old, wavery voice in the back of his head, _and let the woman be born._

She noticed the appraising way he was looking at her. "What?"

He shook his head and smirked, "When you left Winterfell, you were hardly more than a child... You’ve changed.”

Sansa stared in the direction of the fire to avoid his searching gaze. “I have been made to grow up,” she replied plainly.

It was the truth: her struggle for survival started the very moment the sword separated Ned Stark’s head from the rest of his body and did not stop until she passed the gates of Winterfell. “From the moment I was betrothed to Joffrey, it felt as though everything went downhill.” She added with an small, ironic smile, “I guess I deserved it for being infatuated with the likes of him.”

Unfortunately, Jon interpreted it as a joke and failed to see the bitter ring to it. “Well, you’re going to have more than your share of suitors, now that you’re Lady of Winterfell,” he half-jested. The enemy's former bride or not, he thought, she was both quick-minded and lovely to look at, after all.

The look she gave him then told him he’d just made a mistake, causing the smile to slip from his face.

“If I had a say in the matter, I’d never marry again,” she said, shaking her head. Sansa knew better now than to go weak at the knees for what was beautiful; she’d had her fill of depraved and brutal men, and the very idea of marrying appalled her now. A shiver ran down her spine as she wondered once more whether this alliance with the Lord Protector of the Vale wasn’t more than she could handle. If Petyr Baelish was to claim her now, how could she deny him? He had proved a powerful ally in the retaking of Winterfell; a marriage would make perfect sense in the eyes of the Lords, and she did not see how she could refuse him then.

Silence fell again, broken only by the crackling of fire and the pad of housekeepers in the corridor. Jon wasn’t sure what to make of her words; after all, he knew nothing more about her time in King’s Landing than that she was held captive in the Red Keep by the Queen. News of her wedding with Ramsey Bolton had reached his ears a few months ago, but only Rickon’s death had made him realise what a raving madman he must have been. Obviously he’s underestimated how harsh Fate has been to his sister.

“Will you ever tell me how it was for you during all these years?” he asked tentatively.

A few minutes passed. She and Jon were never very close in the past, and that was the first time he asked her something so personal. There were so many things she didn’t know about him either. Although she trusted her brother as she trusted no other man, Sansa wasn’t sure she wanted to confide in him. For a few minutes she just stared into the flames, wrapped up in her thoughts, and just as he thought he wasn’t going to get an answer, she finally found her voice again.

At first, her tone was different than before. Emptier. Matter of fact. She told him with simple words, without grand speeches or self-pity, of what she'd suffered as a hostage, alone and unprotected with no one to turn to; of the horrors she went through until she thought she would go mad from outrage and grief – Joffrey reneging on his consent to spare Ned Stark’s life, the terrible desecration of their father’s body, the pain and humiliation she endured under the eyes of the whole court when she was Joffrey’s plaything to abuse, being left for an angry mob to defile in the chaos of a city riot, the cruel taunts about her household that was all but wiped out.

At times Jon heard a lump in her throat but she did not give in to her tears. Still there were things she would, or could, not emphasise or put into words – the terrible vulnerability she has felt for all these years, a woman hardly more than a child among men of power and brutality; how she had wept for her family but also for herself because she was thirteen years old and her life was over before it had begun; how their unkindness had finally steeled her, making her determined not to break down, not to show them her distress and hatred. She also did not mention her time as Ramsey’s bride – he had already learned a lot more than she would’ve liked him to know.

Jon perceived most of what she left unsaid though. He was stunned by everything she told him, filled with revulsion for this world of stealth, duplicity and intrigue that Sansa had had to live in. He stood swiftly to hide his anger, thinking bitterly of how useless he had been in his siblings’ time of need.

Sansa watched him closely as silence stretched once more between them _._ Although she never pushed him for answers at the time, there were things about his account of how he was relieved of his duties to the Night's Watch that never fully satisfied her. Since they were feeling comfortable enough to be open to each other, she felt brave enough to ask, “Back in Castle Black... I overheard one of your brothers – Jeren I believe – say that there was no way you could have ‘made it through the attack’. What was he talking about?”

Jon seemed to mull over his answer, considering the sanity of what he was about to do.

 "They set a trap for me in the training yard _,”_ he said eventually, slowly raising his arms to unfasten the buckles of his thick leather breastplate. It didn’t escape his notice that she was shrinking back slightly but he kept on undressing after a moment's hesitation. Once the straps were loosened and his armour on the floor, Jon hitched up several layers of linen and wool and bared his chest.

Her eyes passed quickly over his lithely muscled build and a gasp escaped her at the sight of six lethal, raw, angry red gashes crossing his torso. “Wh-What-“

“ _That_ was the price I was made to pay for allowing the Free Folk to pass through the wall,” he whispered.

Sansa rose to her feet and closed the distance between them, bewilderment on her features. “But you don’t look quite like a dead man to me.”

“I should have died though,” Jon said with some difficulty, “The red woman... she brought me back it seems.” He watched her face as she tried to come to terms with this revelation and whispered, “I didn’t expect to live beyond that night. I had no idea what to do next.”

Jon pulled his tunics back down. “When you arrived at Castle Black,” he continued, his throat working silently for a moment, “I believe that... well, if it hadn't been for you, I don’t think I would've found the strength to fight on.”

In truth, ever since he caught sight of her in Castle Black, he was driven by a fierce need to secure what was theirs, to protect his sister and their people from the looming menace beyond the Wall. Deep down, a very small part of him was starting to wonder whether being chosen as sovereign of the North – a title that should have belonged to no one but Robb or Sansa – meant that perhaps he was brought back for a purpose.

The corners of her lips twisted up, “We found each other at the right moment then. I would probably be as good as dead otherwise.”

That made him frown. “When you said you would rather take your own life than to go back to _him_... Did you really mean it?”

The memory of it still made her sick to her stomach. She swore she could still feel Ramsey’s ruthless hands on her skin sometimes, his mad stare on her face.

“Yes,” she simply said, “should we have failed, there would have been no other way out for me.”

The grief written all over his face made her scowl. “Don’t,” she warned. “I told you what happened because you asked it of me. But I don’t want your pity.”

“I don’t pity you. It’s just that I-“

 “It’s part of me now. That’s why you can’t blame me for learning from Cersei. Why I have no intention of being used in another marriage alliance or giving a husband children and not being allowed equal rank. I’ve spent far too long under anyone's control but my own.”

The room went quiet again. Jon gazed into her eyes and in them saw how she had suffered, and how it had refined and strengthened her. Abuse and grief had marked her but not corroded her spirit, and everything he learned about her only increased his admiration. He was surprised and rather ashamed of the strength of his desire to take her in his arms; it was more than brotherly affection, he realised, as he felt something swell within his chest, making his pulse quicken and his veins tingle.

“I won’t force you into marriage,” he promised, his eyes soft. “I would hate to see you on your knees for any man.”

Sansa stared at him, almost puzzled. An intensity that she couldn’t quite define had come into the atmosphere, something that left her slightly unnerved in a way that was entirely unrelated to fear. She could hear his breathing become shallow and her own heartbeat was picking up when Jon seemed to shake himself, clearing his throat and breaking the strange fragility of the moment.

He was becoming awkward, speaking in short, abrupt sentences that rang awkward in his own ears and he fought the urge to cringe. Perhaps it was time to take his leave before he embarrassed himself; now that he understood the nature of this newfound feeling it made him almost shy of her. Jon took a step back and bade her goodnight; he did not dare look into her eyes that glittered in the light of the fire as he turned to make his way out of the room.

Alone again in her chambers after the door closed, Sansa stood motionless, her thoughts racing. She was taken aback by this unexpected shift between them and trying to reconcile it, its sweetness and power strong enough to taste on her tongue. She laughed, delighted and a little incredulous.

This was the most unexpected thing in the world, but somehow it just felt right.

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been sitting in my drafts for months. I'm fairly sure that Queen Sansa is coming and Jonerys is going down but they still might sink our Jonsa ship forever so I wanted to share this with you before s8 airs!  
> I hope you liked this oneshot :) English is not my first language so I hope you'll be kind. Please review if you can, I'd love to know what you think of the story!
> 
> (Title loosely based on Edd Sheeran's Nancy Mulligan.)


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